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The Sacramento County Coroner was a twenty-four-hour operation. The graveyard shift was as busy as any other, perhaps to live up to its unfortunate name. Bodies were brought to the steel crypt in the basement from accidents all over the county, hospitals and nursing homes, suicides and homicides. Bodies were wrestled from wrecked cars, railroad and Metro Rail tracks, sloughs and the American or Sacramento Rivers, from attics and bedrooms and under homes. Rose told him about the memorable time, as a rookie, when she had gone into the American River near Garden Highway to help heft a three-hundred-pound male body back to where it could be winched up. Sometimes bodies came from bathtubs or on boats along the rivers, hanging from ceiling fixtures or rafters, even from cars and motor homes with the motors still blindly running. Terry disliked the grim cold gray-blue labyrinth intensely. But like every cop, homicide in particular, periodic visits were a necessity. He and Rose passed through the steel crypt crowded with bodies, the eerie snap and blue light of a bug zapper competing with several small radios on long white tables, coroner’s assistants munching on jelly beans.
With distaste, Terry saw a crew of assistant coroners measuring, photographing, weighing, and then wrapping two bodies in plastic and sliding them into refrigerated shelves. It unpleasantly reminded him of fish sticks in the freezer at home.